(Author’s Note): Just to say… I have not posted any part of this long-in-the-works book on writing in a very, very long time. You’ll find the link to the parts (and a couple of side posts) on the front page of my website at the top. I am working on re-activating my creativity after a long period of too much time building Crossroad Press and ignoring it. I have to find a way to schedule both… Here is the next installment in this book on writing that I may, or may not ever finish…
I mentioned in the previous short chapter that when I started writing, I chose the short story as my format. There were a lot of reasons for this, but the one I’m going to stick with is – I wasn’t ready to write a novel. What is true for me is not necessarily true for anyone else. A lot of people start out the gate writing novels and never really do much in the short form. Some of my favorite authors are very skimpy on stories, and long on novels, or even novellas. Peter Straub and T. E. D. Klein come to mind as authors who chose their length and pretty much stuck to it. While Peter has written a number of short stories over the years, I don’t believe they are his chosen form… That said, he did beat me for the Bram Stoker award the year my collection Defining Moments was on the final ballot.
For me things have always been a progression. In fact, when it comes to the books that have mattered the most to me, it goes deeper. The first novel I wrote that really mattered to me was This is My Blood. Anyone who is a fan of mine will know that the novel was born as a novelette – first published in Starshore magazine long ago, then reprinted in Karl Edward Wagner’s Year’s Best Horror XIX and a number of other publications over the years. That novelette, “A Candle Lit in Sunlight,” or sometimes mis-titled as “A Candle in the Sun,” was – as it turns out – only the germ of the idea.
It took someone else’s perspective to make me see my error. I was very proud of the novelette. I’d never gotten the kind of notice it brought, and I was even starting to feel a little cocky – the first sense that I had chosen a profession where I had the skill to make a name for myself. Then came my first World Horror Convention. In those days, there were rock-stars of horror. John Skipp, Craig Spector, Poppy Z. Brite, Kathe Koja, David Schow – wandering the halls like the Pied Piper with troops of acolytes and poseurs dangling off them like lichen on a swamp tree. I was a bit in awe of them, but they proved friendly enough, and accessible.
At the time, I was not only starting my writing career, but was in the midst of publishing my magazine, The Tome. I had a table in the dealer’s room, covered in the books and magazines I’d cobbled together to sell and help pay for the adventure. Among those books and magazines were several copies of Starshore with my story. Sales were anything but brisk – there was a lot of competition. Still, I met people. I passed my story on, and on that very first day, it happened.
A short, slender man with a slightly odd accent stepped up to the table. We started talking about vampires. His name, he told me, was Robert Eighteen Bisang. I kind of nodded, thinking it was odd enough to either be true, or an affectation, and that it didn’t matter. He told me he had the largest collection of vampire fiction in the world, first editions of Dracula. I told him that he did not have all of the vampire stories yet. I sold him a copy of Starshore. He promised to read it and let me know what he thought.
I, of course, had heard that a lot since opening the table and seldom seen return traffic. What there was mostly consisted of my fellow small-press editors and authors, and a few people who hoped that, if they stayed close by, I’d remember their names and buy the next story they submitted. Yes – even at the lower levels, we had acolytes. I was pretty new, though, and my “posse” was pretty sad.
Anyway, to make a long story short, Robert came back to my table later that day. He had an odd look on his face, and I’ll never forget what he said. “You know, David, this is really brilliant – but it has to be a novel.”
It took me a bit to get over the “brilliant” part, but I did. His words stuck with me, and so did Robert. In fact, one night out in the middle of the Mediterranean on board the USS Bainbridge, I sat down in the transmitter room I’d claimed as my own (too cold and noisy for most others) and I set to work. I had one of those tiny green Gideon Society bibles that they give you when you go to boot camp. I had my old IBM 386 PC and a Deskjet 500 printer. I had from 4:30 in the afternoon until midnight, day in, and day out.
I went through all the gospels. I wrote down the holes in them, and then I compared those holes to the other three gospels to make sure they weren’t covered somewhere else. I found places where – without changing the original story much – I could insert my characters. I had no idea how long it would end up, but I had a really good idea of where it was all going. This was an important work for me on many, many levels.
Prior to being a writer and publisher, there was a time in my life when, lured to church by good looking high school girls and fun college ministers, I thought my life would go in a different direction. I thought that maybe I’d become one of those fun campus ministers, preach to college kids and high school students, make the church my life. I’m going to stop talking about This is My Blood for a while now, and I’m going to move on to a more memoirish (new word – take note) segment of my tale. I’m going to tell you how a young, naïve man with dreams left small town Illinois, joined the US Navy, outgrew organized religion, and got to the point we just left – the point where this book – this first, important book, was something that had to be written. In no small way, my books are my life. I think that must be true for most creative people – the ones who would create without fame or fortune or fans – the ones that can’t help themselves. We are a sad lot – though the sadness could be dulled by a healthy dose of sales…
In 1977, I graduated from Charleston High School, in Charleston Illinois. Soon after that – things started to get interesting.
A chance encounter with persimmons on Facebook inspired me to post the entire third chapter of AMERICAN PIES – Baking With Dave the Pie Guy – here on my blog. This chapter tells you WHY I wrote the book, how to make a persimmon pie… and more. If you like what you read, you can buy the entire book at the Crossroad Press store in time for Christmas or on AMAZON BY CLICKING HERE.
Fresh Persimmon Pie
You may have guessed by now that this is not just a book of pie recipes. There are stories behind each of the choices I made for my ‘baker’s dozen’. (The final pie was the American Pie – we’ll get to that, but you saw it on the cover of the book). As is the case so often in my life, my past met up with my present one night, and I started remembering, and thinking.
I grew up in southern Illinois. My grandparents lived in a very small town that had already started to die out by the time I first visited. The highway moved to the side and bypassed them. They had lived there for a very long time, having built several homes, and even a log cabin. My Aunt Lucile (We called her Aunt ‘Toole’ – though I don’t really know why) lived in the house next door, which my grandfather also built.
I spent a lot of time in Flora – that was the town. Some of the strongest memories and impressions of my life date back to those few small streets, the park outside of town, Johnsonville Lake where my grandpa took us fishing, and the railroad tracks we walked up and down that led out of town.
In those days, there were still a lot of trains. Sometimes you had to hurry to get off the tracks and out of the way as hundreds of cars rushed past, looking tall as large buildings and making so much noise conversation was impossible. In later years, my brother and I explored those tracks on our own, but when I was younger I went there with my grandfather, Merle Cornelius Smith, who I remember as the finest man I ever met – and who I wish I’d been older while knowing so I could have heard, and understood, his stories. I’ve heard a lot of them second hand, and I’ve got pictures, records and the memories my mom has shared. I just wish I’d been a little more aware of just how amazing his life had been, so I could have soaked more in while I had time to spend.
He took my brother and I back along those railroad tracks because there were nut trees in small groves that he knew where to find – and in one small hollow down off the track, there were persimmon trees. My grandfather introduced me to a lot of things in life. He taught me to fish, to tie my own flies, to wrap a fishing rod and build it from scratch, and he taught me about a lot of food that I likely would not have known, or enjoyed.
He showed me how to make dandelion greens into something very much like spinach. He introduced me to fresh, home-made canned yogurt, gardening, raising earthworms, polishing stones and making jewelry. Out along the railroad tracks, he introduced me to persimmons.
They were different back then than what you’ll find in the grocery store these days. They were sort of like a game – you could win a treat, but you couldn’t win if you didn’t play. About a third of all the persimmons we picked left a bitter aftertaste…finding them just ripe enough was an art form and a shaky one at best. Still, when they were good, they were among the best flavors in the world, and I never forgot them.
One day we were in our local grocery, here in North Carolina, and there, in a carton, were persimmons. I got excited. I probably babbled about them. I know everyone reached the smile and nod point with me pretty quickly but it didn’t matter. They were there, and I bought some. As I ate them, day after day, I waited for that bad one – that bitter taste that had plagued the persimmon bliss of my youth. It never came. They were sweet, soft, and consistently good. Finally, I looked them up on the Internet.
As mankind has done so many times in the past, someone got tired of the ‘problem’ of bitter persimmons. They not only engineered new ones that were almost never bitter (I did find one bitter one late one night and almost laughed until I cried trying to explain why a bad taste in my mouth brought a good memory). They also managed to create persimmons without seeds. I learned, as I read, that they are also called Sharon fruit, named for the Sharon Plain in Israel, where some of the finest of this particular fruit has been grown. It does look a bit like a star inside when sliced (as you’ll see in the pictures). They are orange-yellow to dark orange in color and very sweet.
Anyway, after eating these newly rediscovered treats for a couple of weeks, I was sitting in bed thinking (almost always a mistake). What came to mind was …why have I never seen a persimmon pie? This led to the question of whether you could make a persimmon pie, and the inevitable Internet journey that led to the answer.
Of course you can. You can make a pie out of almost anything. I found several recipes for fresh persimmon pie, and I copied a bunch of them. Then I did what I usually do. I poked them, prodded them, talked about them, and generally procrastinated without doing anything. I, of course, did not regularly bake pies. I’ve probably baked a couple earlier in my life, but it was so far back I don’t remember. The question changed from ‘can you make a persimmon pie?’ to ‘Can I make a persimmon pie.”
As it turns out, again, the answer was – of course I can. Pie is like anything else … you can psyche yourself out and make it into some weird voodoo that only chefs, bakers, and grandmas can pull off with any skill, but the truth is; if you pay attention, take your time, and prepare properly, you can bake a pie. It’s not rocket science (though I have it on good authority that rocket scientists like pie.).
Once I got over the hurdle of deciding to actually bake the pie, things shifted into a higher gear. I was all business. I had my recipe. I was sure we had everything we needed in the kitchen, I mean, it’s full of baking stuff. I checked my list, and found that we did, indeed, have most of the ingredients for this particular pie right in our pantry. Of course, I had to buy persimmons.
The recipe calls for 2 ½ cups of fresh persimmons. Stumbling block number one. How many persimmons, exactly, in a cup? And also – looking at the recipe, I realized I had a bigger problem. You see, there was a picture of the pie they envisioned. It was flat across the top, maybe even a little sunken. It looked a lot like the pies in the supermarket, and that was not what I wanted to bake.
I pulled out the biggest measuring cup we have – it’s an Anchor Hocking Fire-King piece we bought at an auction when we spent our nights buying and selling antiques and collectibles on eBay. Another lifetime, it seems, after all this time. Anyway, the top line on the measuring scale said that it held four cups. It didn’t seem like much to me, and even with that measurement to sort of eyeball, it quickly became obvious that, depending on how they were sliced, the number of persimmons it would take to fill that cup was going to vary wildly. I bought a whole bag of them. I err on the side of too much fruit every time, and if there are leftover persimmons, believe me, you won’t be sorry when you taste one.
I gathered the ingredients, but not efficiently. My method was to put each of the things that I had to have in a different container (why? I have no idea) so I dirtied quite a few cups and bowls in the process. The recipe called for:
2 ½ Cups of ripe persimmons. (We used 5-6 cups in the end)
1/3 of a Cup of granulated sugar.
1/3 Cup firmly packed brown sugar.
2 ½ Tablespoons of quick cooking tapioca…
What? Here we break down again. Cooking tapioca? I’ve had tapioca pudding often enough. What was it doing in a pie, though? I had to stop – mid-pie – and go back to the Internet. I also had to figure out why, exactly, I’d missed this during my quick inventory. I mean, the pie was half made, and I was missing something – maybe something important.
Here is one of the lessons I learned about pies. Fruit is juicy. (wow, what a revelation). If you just bake it in a pie, it bubbles out over the edges. It won’t hold together when you slice it. It’s more like soup, in fact, than it is like filling. Cooking tapioca is something bakers use to thicken the filling. Thankfully for my first pie, it’s not the only thing that will do the job. The more commonly used ingredient is cornstarch, and according to the cooking experts I found online, you could use about the same amount of cornstarch as you would tapioca and it would work just fine. That’s what I did. As luck would have it, we had cornstarch in abundance. This thickening process is one of the tricky things to learn, and may not work for you perfectly until you experiment with it. The recipes I found varied wildly on the amount necessary for several of the pies we made. Our results varied just as wildly, and while we didn’t come out with any bad pies, some were runnier than I’d have liked. This is where grandmothers have the upper hand with their pinch of this and handful of that. They just knew…and the reason they knew was they’d done it and done it and done it again.
1 Teaspoon ground cinnamon.
1/2 Teaspoon of grated orange peel.
1/2 Teaspoon of grated lemon peel.
Again…time for another break. Various recipes call for grated orange and lemon peels, or “zested” peels. What they don’t tell you is how in the world you’re supposed to get said grated peel, or why it’s there. I can’t tell you that I know why it’s there – other than flavor – but I can tell you how to get it.
First, wash the lemon, or the orange. You’d think that goes without saying, but I mention it because it’s something I think about. I once wrote a story that was published in an anthology about Holidays. My story? “For These Things I am Truly Thankful.” In that story, the protagonist becomes obsessed with the history of things. The water in his sink, coming through pipes that ran beneath the ground, had been put together by plumbers with God knows what on their hands, had picked up silt and other things from the processing plant, the people there – etc.
I want to point out that the orange and / or lemon in question came from a grocery store, where it was groped by consumers, placed by a stock person, possibly coughed and sneezed on. Before that they were in a box, shipped from another country, and suffered all of those same things – along with bug spray and BUGS (which is why they spray). So…since you are using the outside of the fruit, wash it thoroughly.
If you have a potato peeler or a cheese grater, either of these will work fine – and even if the recipe in hand says “zest” – it’s all the same when it hits the pie. I happen to have a zester by lucky coincidence. I bought a fancy vegetable carving kit so I could have the tools to carve Halloween pumpkins, and, as it turns out, one of the things they sent (though I had no idea what it was until Trish told me) was a zester.
3 Tablespoons of lemon juice.
I know, I know. Get on with it, right? I promise that I will, but I have to tell you, the lemon juice confused me too. Now I know it’s important, and if it’s missing from a fruit recipe, I usually add it in for good measure. Lemon juice is a natural preservative. I’m sure you’ve bitten into an apple, or left one sliced and laying around longer than you should have. They get brown very quickly. The same is true of a number of fruits, and if the first thing you do is to slice your fruit, you chance the quick advance of decay while you are busy mixing and whisking and doing pie-baking things. You sprinkle the aforementioned lemon juice onto the fruit to keep it fresh – and it works. I can say that after 13 pies, it worked for me every time. You also get a slight citrus flavor from it, but not distracting. You actually – oddly – get more flavor from the zested / grated peels.
2 9″ Pastry pie crusts.
I use the boxed crusts you can find at the supermarket. I do not use the store brand, or any generic. If I get permission from the company (still waiting) I’ll let you know the brand name before I’m done, but suffice it to say the mascot giggles a lot. They are (hands down) the best. I will eventually branch into making my own crusts, I suppose, but my suspicion is that, though I might make one as good as the ones I use, probably I will not make one that is better.
The last ingredient is butter or margarine. You’ll see anything from one to three tablespoons in pie recipes, but here’s the deal. This is a pinch of this and handful of that thing, again. When all the filling is in the pie, you’ll spot the top of it with small dabs of butter or margarine. It melts down in and blends with the juice, cornstarch, and filling and it’s important so make sure you remember – right before that second crust goes over the top of the pie (I’ll mention this again when I reach that point, but I want to be sure you don’t forget. I did – once – and had to peel back the top crust and slide it in. A delicate job that could have ruined a perfectly good pie.)
Now it’s time to make this pie. Rinse the persimmons (see my note about washing fruit above). These have a weird leaf/stem that has to be cut out. It’s easiest to cut in a circle around it and pop it off the top. The recipes all called for the persimmons to then be cut into thin slices. Here is where I’ll make another comment. We did as they instructed, and the pie was actually very good. Persimmons, though, unless incredibly ripe, are kind of crunchy. If you slice the persimmons into, basically, circular slices, you’ll find them a little hard to cut with a fork when eating them, though they look really good in the bowl, and in the pie. I didn’t mind this – but I love persimmons. For better results, I think, I’d suggest almost dicing the fruit. Some recipes call for pulping the persimmons (boiling them to mush) but I don’t like doing this to any fruit – dicing will give you smaller, more manageable chunks.
Once your persimmons are cut, or sliced, and ready –put them in a medium to large sized bowl and sprinkle the lemon juice over them. Set this aside and find yourself another medium sized bowl. In this bowl, combine the two types of sugar, tapioca (or cornstarch), cinnamon, orange and lemon peels and stir them thoroughly. You need to mix up all the powders until you have them spread evenly so you don’t end up with pockets of cornstarch, or sugar on one side, and all the orange peels on the other. I use either a whisk, or a large spoon for this mixing. The spoon is good because you can use it to sprinkle the resultant mixture over the fruit.
Now, set aside your second bowl and get your pie plate ready. I recommend as deep a 9″ pie plate as you can find. I only use glass or Pyrex plates. Set the plate on a surface where you have some working room, and then get out your pie crusts. Unroll the first crust and place it over the top of the pie plate, then carefully press it down into the plate so that it shapes to the glass. The crust will extend out past the edge of the plate. At this point, take a knife and cut around the edge of the plate, trimming off the excess crust.
You can do what you want with this excess. They say it’s bad to eat it raw, though I’ve done that. The “Pie Bloke” over in the UK tells me it’s because there is raw egg in it. Trish suggests rolling it into balls, sprinkling it with cinnamon and sugar, and baking it to make pie-crust cookies. We did that once, and they were okay, but nothing to write home about. The important thing is that you trim even with the flat top edge of your pie-plate.
When this is done you have a couple of choices. As you will see in the photos of my own persimmon pie, I chose to mix all of the ingredients in with the persimmons thoroughly, and then place them in the pie. The other method is layering, sprinkling in some of the ingredients, then layering persimmons on top of that, sprinkling more, etc. If you choose this latter method, don’t skimp. You need all the ingredients in the pie if you can manage it. The key is that the fruit should be coated in the sugar and cornstarch and cinnamon, and that it should filter down and fill the cracks between the fruit. As the pie bakes, the fruit will sort of melt into the rest of it, and combine. It’s a beautiful thing.
From here on out, it’s pretty easy. Don’t forget to dab in the bits of butter or margarine. Spread them out across the pie filling, but it doesn’t REALLY matter where you put them. Next you need to take that second pie crust, unroll it, and very carefully place it over the top of the pie. You have to get it centered so that there is excess sticking out over the edges of the plate.
There are tools for what I’m about to describe. I don’t own one. I have an old can opener with the pointed, triangular end on it. Not much good for cans these days, but you can use it here. Hold it with the top down. Press it firmly into the top crust directly above the flat glass edge of the pie plate. This presses the two crusts together and leaves a cool indentation. Right beside this, do it again, and continue this carefully all the way around the perimeter of the pie, until you’ve come full circle and the edges of the impressions touch. The cool technical term for this is crimping When this is done, once again, trim off all the excess crust and set it aside for whatever you’ve decided to use it for.
At this point, I usually stop and turn on the oven. It takes a while to preheat. This also brings me to another wide variance in the recipes of others. Baking time, and temperature. This recipe calls for setting the oven at 375° – and I have to say, on this first pie I probably got lucky. I’m convinced that the perfect baking time on most pies hovers on or around one hour. The best results I’ve had have involved starting with a really high temperature, and dropping it down after twenty minutes or so…but for this pie, set the oven to 375° and wait for it to preheat.
Next you need to cut vents in your top crust. This is another thing that you don’t want to forget, because, as I keep saying, step after step, it’s important. The vents let the pressure and heat from the fruit cooking inside release any built up pressure and gives the filling a place to bubble up and out if it gets too hot. I cut slits from near the center down in a star pattern. Some people cut sort of tear-drop shaped slits, and others try to get artistic and cut designs. The star was quick and easy, and it’s what I went with. Later in the book I’ll show you what happened when we tried to get more creative. In the end – I’m going to eat the pie…so I don’t need anything fancy.
At this point I slapped my pie in on the bottom shelf, as the recipe called for, and set my timer for one hour. It was a mistake, and I’ll explain that in a moment. While it’s baking you should look in on it now and then. Make sure the edges get a little brown before you pull it out, and make sure they don’t get too brown. Again, it’s something you learn to get just right over time.
But let’s get back to that mistake. Remember I said you had the vents in case the filling needs to bubble up and out? It does. It always does, at least a little. If you put your pie in on the oven rack, that fruit filling is going to sizzle and drip all over the bottom of your oven. This is not going to make people happy. It’s hard to get out, it bakes onto the inner surface of the oven like cement, and it’s easily avoidable. What you need to do is either to put a foil covered cookie or pizza pan underneath your pie pan, or to make something. That’s what I do, now. After Trish quit cursing at me, and showed me how, I started using a drip pan created by taking a couple of sheets of tinfoil and folding them. You fold one in half, just a bit wider than the pie pan. Then you take the other, fold it over and around the first forming a sort of cross. Crimp up the edges so that anything trying to run over the edge of your pie – won’t. Again…this is important.
Now, place your pie into the heated oven, set yourself a timer (I use the one on the microwave above the stove) and sit back to wait out the hour for your finished pie. When it’s baked, remove it carefully and place it on the stop top to cool. I think about an hour is perfect for cooling. Your finished product should look something like this:
If you did it right…shortly after this, it will look more like this:
And there you have it. I will include the full recipes for each of these pies at the back of the book (minus the commentary). They will also be available (for those who buy the book) as a printable recipe cards. These chapters are longer, but I hope not boring – and I know likely to improve your outcome. Learn from my mistakes…that’s why I’m here. Now, on to our next adventure, Fresh Pear Pie.
Bloody Knife & Morning Star
By David Niall Wilson
Bloody Knife watched from his pony as the Calvary trooped by. Their uniforms glistened in the sunlight, and their weapons gleamed with the promise of glory and death. They were confident, and you could feel that confidence in the air, an aura that reached out from the golden haired demon that led them to permeate the entire column.
As guide, it was the Indian’s place to lead the way, but for the moment he only sat and brooded, watching as the spirits spoke to his soul. Custer turned once, nodding in his direction, an almost imperceptible acknowledgement of his presence, his part in the grand scheme of what was to come. Bloody Knife did not even twitch in response.
They called this golden-haired one “The son of the morning star.” It was appropriate. This was the dawning of great moments, new beginnings. The twilight and the birth of dreams. As the last of them glided by, a gaudy painting of arrogance and naiveté against a backwash of blue sky and the rising sun, Bloody knife dug his knees into his mount and slid off along the side of them like a shadow, leaving them in a small cloud of dust and making his way into the ravine ahead. His mind was focused, his concentration centered on what was to come.
It had been a chance meeting, a meeting destined by stars and dreams. Bloody Knife had been leaning against the railing beside a tavern called “The Smoking Gun,” idly sipping at his private bottle of whiskey and letting his mind wander. The bottle was as much for show as anything. Although he never drank to excess, it was a good idea to let those around him believe it to be his custom. There were reasons for everything he did, patterns shifting about him that only he could grasp.
It was such a pattern that had placed him there, just so, when his destiny had marched by. Golden hair flying in the stiff breeze, shoes shined and blue uniform so brilliant in the sun that it seemed to glow with its own, inner light, General George Armstrong Custer moved with the confidence of arrogance. He barely shifted his gaze toward Bloody Knife, but the sudden narrowing of his eyes, the slight hitch in the perfection of his stride, gave him away.
In a voice calculated for the proper volume, he spoke to one of his two companions. “I have come here for a purpose, gentlemen,” he announced. “The heathen Sioux are rampant, and it seems a strong hand is in order. Of course, they shall present no real threat to a well-trained regiment, but still, they seem to be proving difficult.”
Bloody Knife turned his own face away, still listening, but not wanting them to know it.
“You don’t know them red devils, sir,” the sergeant trotting along at his side puffed. “They’re slicker than shadows in them woods.”
“Rubbish,” Custer dismissed him. “Fighting men, trained properly, are the match for any situation, especially one involving uncouth savages. I expect to have this matter resolved soon, and to be called back to more important duties in the east. Let’s get some food, then we’ll talk about those guides…I’ll be needing to get through the ‘Black Hills,’ as you call them, as swiftly as possible.”
“Yes sir,” the man replied. He said no more, but in the tone of his voice, and the stiffening of his shoulders as he moved through the tavern door in his commander’s wake, Bloody Knife read worlds of doubt. This man knew. This man had met the peoples of forest and plain, had seen the light of his own death burning in their eyes. The other was a fool, but there was something more.
Letting his senses stretch, feeling the voices of the ground beneath him and the birds that floated in the skies above blending with his consciousness, he searched. There was an aura nearby, an aura of strength and purpose, an aura of power. It emanated from the interior of the tavern, and it brought a darkness, a dulling of the sight, such as he’d never experienced.
Calling out within the great mother’s spirit, he reached for her children, the spirits gone beyond, reached for their thoughts, for their aid. He could hear them speaking, just beyond the questing tendrils of his own mind, but he could not make out their warnings. All that would surface was an image, a glowing nimbus — a face — obscured by a green fire. It was surrounded by a mane of bright, golden hair, and from within it echoed the loneliness of a shattered spirit.
Shivering, Bloody Knife brought himself back to the present. He looked about himself, re-orienting his senses. Nobody had seen him in his trance-state, but it would not have mattered. He still held the whiskey bottle tightly in one hand, and they would have assumed what they believed to be the obvious.
That had been the beginning — the trail that wound back to the mother spirit, the path to inner light. It had been the moment he’d dedicated his life to reach, suffering the abuse of his own people, the contempt of the whites, and the scarring of his soul to achieve. It had been a moment of rebirth.
Slipping around the corner of the doorway, he’d stolen a last glance at the man, Custer. He’d scanned the handsome features, the arrogant tilt of the man’s head and the polished dignity of his demeanor. He was the one, there was no doubt. Never had he felt the spirit of those who would desecrate the land so intensely.
Within “The smoking Gun,” General George Armstrong Custer felt the weight of intruding eyes on his shoulders and spun his head quickly to the door. It was empty, but he would have sworn, had he not feared being considered insane, that the lingering image of a man’s form shimmered in that space. A dark man, an Indian. A heathen. The notion that such a man might pose a threat to an officer and a gentleman was ridiculous, and yet he felt a sudden chill. Shaking it off, he returned to his drink, and his plans.
As he rode out of the town and made his way toward the outskirts of the surrounding forest, where he would meet with the soldiers and secure his position as guide, Bloody Knife let his mind slide backward, leaving the mechanics of riding to the instincts of both body and horse, freeing his senses.
As a young man, life had treated him poorly. Half Sioux, half Ree, raised in a Sioux village, the taunts and challenges had been twice those imposed on the other boys. He had been beaten, whipped, stoned, chased and mocked, all with little time for respite. If it hadn’t been for certain events in his twelfth year, he might never have survived.
The tribe he’d been a part of was guided by the wisdom of a ancient, wrinkled shaman named Speaks With Spirits. It was to this man that his mother had taken him when, cut by a hail of stones from the other young men of the village, his head had bled profusely. The man had treated him without comment. At the time, Bloody Knife had been known as Running Dog, a name neither he, nor his mother, were pleased with, but which his father had insisted upon. Bloody Knife had known that the others of the village were behind this, that his father was secretly ashamed to name his son in this way, but there had been nothing he could do.
“Leave him with me,” Speaks With Spirits had said, and his mother had left immediately. The old man’s words were the law, and his powers were feared by all.
Bloody Knife had been in too much pain to give his fear much thought, and he’d followed meekly behind as Speaks With Spirits led him into his lodge. He’d known that others watched, and that tongues would already be wagging, but he’d been beyond caring. No one would think to harm him as long as he was in the presence of the shaman. He only hoped that the old man himself was not planning anything horrible.
Turning to him solemnly, Speaks With Spirits had gestured that he should be seated. He did so, looking about himself carefully, trying not to stare at the odd array of charms, potions, and animal parts. It was impolite to be curious, but impossible not to be.
Speaks With Spirits returned a moment later with a skin filled with some sort of liquid.
“Drink,” he said simply. “Drink, then sleep. Tomorrow, we will talk.”
That was all. Bloody Knife, then known as Running Dog, turned up the skin and took a long swallow of something syrupy, sweet, and then suddenly bitter. It had taken every ounce of control he could muster not to spit the foul stuff back up, but he had managed it, handing the bag quickly back to the old man, whose eyes were crinkled in sudden mirth.
And he had. Not a normal sleep. Long, deep, but filled with dreams — a journey such as he’d never known. Animals spoke to him first, blue-black ravens and otters with sleek fur, rabbits and bears — eagles. He listened as they spoke, and they flitted about him, surreal and insubstantial, whispering things he only half-heard, messages and instructions that would not stick with him, but that had re-emerged at various moments later in his life.
There had been men and women, as well. Their features, at first blending and shifting in and out with those of the animals, were insubstantial. They would coalesce, then disperse, then return in different patterns, confusing his mind and rendering it impossible for him to place them, one voice with one face. They were all voices, all faces, joining with him and teaching, communing with his own spirit and welcoming him in.
Speaks With Spirits was there, and yet he was not. His voice came first, chanting, rhythmic and powerful. As the sound went on, a warm glow flowed in and through him, and there was a subtle shift. The faces drifted away, flitted less often over one another’s features. It was Speaks With Spirits, one face, one voice, and his message was the only one that made it through, the only one not lost in the barrage of vision and confusion.
“You are chosen,” the voice had filled him, owned him. “You have the ears that spirits can reach, the eyes that can see beyond the veil. The great mother spirit of the earth rushes strong through your veins. What is mine, is yours. My gift now joins with your own, my life and destiny and yours are bound.
“There were powers before the Sioux, powers before the peoples of plains and mountains, before the whites and their fire-sticks, before even elk and deer. Our mother is the first, the greatest. The journey must be made back into her arms, the ascension to her realms. Your feet will take that path, your spirit will share the way with mine.”
There had been more. Much more. He had learned of spirits and the wisdom they could bring. He had learned of the earth, and of those who would desecrate her, removing the visions — silencing the voices of the spirits. All of this and more, and all in one, long vision.
Then he’d awakened to madness. He was wet — cold and sticky, and rising he found that he was coated in blood. Looking wildly about himself, it had registered that he was still in the lodge of Speaks With Spirits. The old one sat, legs crossed, above the position where he had lain. His head lolled at an odd angle, and the blood had run from the jagged cut at his throat down to pool on the ground where the boy, then Running Dog, had lain.
He rose numbly. There was a knife on the ground . . . dropped from Speaks With Spirits’ hands. The blood was pooled around the knife as well, and he reached out slowly, picking it up and staring at it in disbelief. He had slept. All he had done was to drink that foul potion, whatever it might have been, and …it was the manlan.
The voice, not exactly a voice, but a thought that was not wholly his own, had snapped out to fill in the gap in his knowledge, the name of the potion. He trembled. The manlan, vision drink. His mind filled slowly with a list of ingredients, a procedure he’d never known, a knowledge beyond his years and mind.
There were voices outside the tent as well. White Elk and Bear In Woods were calling to Speaks with Spirits, and they were impatient not to be answered. They prepared for a raid, and they needed strong medicine to guide and protect them.
Without thinking, or without thinking “himself,” the boy who was then Running Dog passed through the door of the lodge into the village beyond and stood, staring at the men. He held the bloody knife in his hand, still, and he stared at them with eyes that were different than those he’d worn before. Strong eyes. Pure and old. Wise.
“It is a bad day for a raid,” he said softly. His voice carried, despite the lack of force behind the words, and his eyes did not waver. Though the questions, the anger, and the disbelief warred within their eyes, White Elk and Bear in Woods turned on their heels and walked away. Others saw him, and they saw the knife. They whispered among themselves, but they did not come forward.
Speaks With Spirits had been powerful, old and wise in the ways of spirits and demons. If he was now dead, and this boy had killed him, then there was a power in him, as well. He was Running Dog no more — his identity branded into his soul as surely as the blood stained his hands.
He had walked slowly to the tent of his family, and he had taken up his weapons and his belongings without speech. His mother only stared, but his father — unwilling to face what was to come, turned and walked from the lodge without a backward glance, refusing to acknowledge his son further. It did not matter. There were new teachers within him, voices that came and went with the winds, energies and powers that beckoned from far lands and long roads.
He’d mounted his pony and turned to leave. There had been a tug on his leg, and he’d turned, almost, but not quite, swinging the knife. It was his mother, and her eyes were clear and proud.
“You must go to the Ree. I will follow soon. You must go to the lodge of my father and tell him who you are and what has happened. You must not return here.”
He nodded. It had been a beginning. He had never belonged with the Sioux, not truly, and now he knew that Speaks With Spirits had not, either. The old man had been of ancient stock, holder of secrets that made the eldest memory of the tribe seem the prattle of children. Now he was the guardian. The spirits spoke to him, Speaks With Spirits among them, and he had a destiny.
As the line of soldiers disappeared behind him, Bloody Knife swerved his mount and headed it off at a gallop along the valley, not leading them into the battle ground, as expected. Custer had other scouts — they would assume his death, which was in any case inevitable. He had one last trial — one last part to play.
He let his finger stray to his belt and the tiny silver horseshoe pendant he wore there. It was the only ornamentation he allowed himself. He would not dress as a Sioux — there was too much hatred, too much pain. He would never truly be Ree, despite his mother’s admonitions that me must stay with her, and with that tribe. Neither was he white. Nevertheless, he knew the power of talismans, and in the work to come, he’d invested greatly in the power of this one — one truly believed in by those he would stand against.
He was of the spirit. Symbols meant little to him, except in the powers they could contain. This horseshoe was the mirror of that worn around the neck of Custer’s subordinate, Major Reno. It would form the link — it would be his bridge. Custer would never believe in anything but himself, and in that power he believed all too much. Reno was different. He had seen defeat, had stared death in the eyes and lived with the haunting echo of that image for years. The spirits knew him by sight.
There were no trumpets to fill the air this day, despite Custer’s bravado. It was a bold plan, large and far-sighted in implication and implementation. He knew the odds, even as he disclaimed that there was any possibility of defeat. He believed that he had the answers, and that belief was a strong weapon, in and of itself.
He believed in Bloody Knife, as well. That was the fatal flaw. Every great plan has its weakness, every leader his Achilles heel. Bloody Knife had led him through the fabled holy black hills of the Sioux nation untouched. He had been there, breathing secrets and twisting dreams, since that day outside “The Smoking Gun.”
The Sioux hated Bloody Knife. Custer had no idea how deeply that hatred might run, but he felt it. His mind did not allow for the chance that the hatred was not reciprocated. The world was a steady procession of straight lines and set angles for the general. A man hated, a man loved, there was no middle ground, no gray area.
It was not Custer that Bloody Knife fought. It was not the Sioux. It was what each stood for in this senseless war. Change. Desecration of the land. Ignorance of the spirit of the land that provided all they needed, and ignorance of the mutual respect that could preserve this. Custer would not stop at the Sioux. He would not be happy until he had proven himself superior in intellect and battle to every “heathen savage” in the west.
The Sioux would not bend, but they might break. There was pride in them running deeper than sanity, in many cases, honor that shamed the whites they fought at every turn, but to no avail. They did not listen to the old ones any longer, though they venerated them. They did not seek to raid, or to count coup on their enemies, then to return to home and hearth for bragging rights. They sought destruction, annihilation. They were no different in this than the whites, and that was what Bloody Knife hated.
He slipped into a small copse of trees, and he pulled his mount to a halt, sliding off and kneeling quickly. There was not much time to work. He drew a small circle in the dirt, seating himself in it and pulling free the bag he wore at his side. From this he drew several herbs, which he sprinkled onto a pile of leaves and small twigs. After lighting them with flint and stone, he took free the small silver horseshoe from his belt and held it before him, closing his eyes and waiting for the sweet smoke to waft up and about him.
He could feel them gathering, the spirits of those who had gone before, the animals who had led him to an understanding of the land, wise men and warriors, mothers, daughters, and behind them all the whispered breath of the mother herself, the ultimate dream calling to his soul.
He concentrated, breathing deeply, pulling his essence within and redirecting it. His focus was the glinting silver horseshoe, the memory of golden hair and glistening steel, the whooping, rage-filled cries of the warriors as they mounted.
He had come to Sitting Bull in his dreams. While wrapped in the warm embrace of his three current wives, the Chief had seen victory. He had ridden as a demon through the lines of his enemy, counting their dead like the flies on a buffalo carcass and screaming his name to the skies. Victory and battle were the only visions the Sioux would respect in those days of horror and hatred, and Bloody Knife had provided them. The Sioux would ride.
Custer had been different. Bloody Knife had never feigned good will toward his employer, often being openly disrespectful. It was a ploy to gain respect, one that had worked. His prophecies had helped Custer on innumerable occasions, but never had they been offered directly. Always, he had made comments from the side, suggestions to the wind that were overheard and implemented. The battle to come was based on such comments.
“I had a dream,” he’d told another scout, aware that Custer listened nearby. “In my dream, there was a hill — a hill I know. It was the Little Bighorn, you know this place?” The guide had nodded solemnly. “I saw that hill run red, and from it, many spirits rose. They wore the colors and paint of the Sioux, and above them, burning bright, was a star — the star of the Morning…”
There had been more, and he had seen the effect of his words in the other’s eyes. Custer never said a word, but it was that very evening that he gathered his subordinates and planned to take off, with his own regiment, to the hill of the Little Bighorn. He outlined his plan carefully, and his eyes were nearly fevered with thoughts of victory and glory.
The smoke carried Bloody Knife up through the trees, up to where the fields beyond were visible, up to where the touch of the sun was a caress on his soul. He could see the hill in the distance, and he could hear the sounds from where the main force of the troops, led by Major Reno, were engaged, held in position, by huge numbers of the Sioux.
He could sense those forces pulling back, and he knew it was about to come, the battle was on. Custer would soon mount the hill, and Reno would begin to close in from the flank with his cavalry. It might be enough to turn the tide. It might change the vision. It could not be so.
The image of the horseshoe grew until it was a giant, panoramic view that super-imposed itself on the sky. He looked within the silver, looked beyond it, and he saw Reno, saw the man give the order to move and saw the lines begin to form behind him.
The spirits answered Bloody Knife’s call. They slid from tree to tree around the Major and his forces, rising from the earth, dropping from the trees. Always they were just out of sight, but they caught at the peripheral of each soldier’s vision, snatched at the sensitive ears and eyes of their mounts, grabbed at the strings that bound their hearts to their courage and plucked, bringing a trembling to the very air itself. Danger. Death.
Reno’s eyes were taking on a far-away, empty glaze. He saw the land before him, and yet he saw a different place. He saw his men, but they were not the men of that moment, but the men of another place, another time. Ahead his men saw the Unkpapa village and the line of Sioux warriors descending on them. Reno saw a road. Ahead was the fleeing form of a single man, “The Grey Ghost,” John Singleton Mosby, and he felt himself drawn into the vortex of that moment, reliving the madness.
He’d confronted the fugitive in a small town, chased him out onto the road, and victory was at hand. Then the bullets had begun to fly, from the trees, the bushes, raining down upon the road like hail. All around him his men were dropping, dying, screaming, and ahead the “Grey Ghost” laughed, flying into the face of time, dragging him through the blood and bodies of the fallen.
This wavered in and out of his vision along with the village, the advancing braves, his men. There were other Indians there as well, rising from the ground to stare at him in hatred, to stare through him, then to disappear. He raised his hand, screamed for a halt, for a dismount. He could feel the charge of the enemy as they approached, and yet he halted.
Skirmish lines were quickly formed as his men, staring stupidly at him as if he were a mad man, did as he ordered. They set themselves in a defensive posture, and they waited, leaving the plan, the General, and history to sort it out.
Reno leaped from his own horse, running madly about the lines, giving orders, some that made sense, others that were gibberish. He lost his helmet in the madness and picked up a stray straw hat, wrapping a cloth about his head as though to emulate the very savages they fought. Foam flew from his lips, and still he stumbled about. They could not die. He would not let them. His men would not die at his hand again.
Bloody Knife called to him, then, seeing that they would not advance, and he stopped still, listening to the air. Without further thought, he spun and ran to his horse, leaping back to the saddle.
“If you would save yourselves,” he cried, raising his arms high above his head as his horse pranced nervously, “follow me.”
The major turned and fled, and his men, one after another, slowly at first, then in force, followed. They were in a confusion, and the Sioux warriors falling upon them like an avenging tide took full advantage. They dragged the soldiers from their mounts, impaled them one after another in the constant barrage of arrows that blurred the air with shafts and feathers, death and screaming pain.
There was no chance. There was no hope, and with that black tide at his heels, the major fled to the trees, where Bloody Knife awaited him. The scout had risen. About his neck, he’d tied a starred bandanna that Custer himself had given him. He’d donned the bear-claw and clam-shell necklace of the Sioux shaman, carried at his side all these years, carried with secret pride and open pain. He stood alone in a clearing, sending his mind out to Reno and calling him forth.
The spirits whispered of the blood. The Little Bighorn ran red, and the blood was not of the Sioux. Men died, screaming and tortured, Indian children played with the wounded, stabbing and cutting, cat-calling and hounding. To a man they would die, their blood returning to replenish the land. The battle would make no difference in the end, but for that moment, that glorious moment, the last that Bloody Knife would know on earth, there would be a cleansing. There would be a return to what was animal in man, what was natural in nature.
As he stood, Reno roared into the clearing, eyes crazed and spittle flying from his lips. Seeing Bloody Knife and recognizing him, somehow, he leaped from his saddle and ran forward, dropping the reins of his mount and nearly stumbling to his knees.
“What has happened?” he cried. “Why are you not with the General? The attack, it is over — lost. We cannot break through. Why . . .”
There were a million questions swirling in the madness of the man’s eyes. Bloody Knife would have liked the time to explain himself, to teach what he had been taught, to pass on this legacy of responsibility, but it was not possible. It was time.
Even as the echo of the gunshot rang through the forest, he felt the hand of the mother’s spirit reaching out to draw him home. He saw the earth swirling away beneath him, felt the release as he broke free — broke into the realm of those he’d shared with so often, felt their embrace as they accepted him into the one whole, the spirit of the earth mother, Gaia, the purity of essence without form.
Major Reno staggered into the trees and somehow found his mount. He’d seen the eyes behind that gun — Sioux. They had followed him, even here, and they had shot Bloody Knife before he could answer. The major reached up slowly, running a gloved hand across his face. The Indian guide’s blood had spattered his features, his uniform, imbedded itself in his hair.
One moment the man had stood before him, the next his head had just exploded. Nothing. Where there had been eyes, eyes awash in wisdom and answers lost, there was a mist of red and pain. No screams. No staggering, bloody corpse. The body had dropped, headless, and Reno had run. Again.
In the distance he could still hear guns, screams. A momentary vision blotted the sight of the forest and he saw a hill, running deepest red, overrun with feathered hair and screaming, savage faces. There were no blue-shirted warriors on that hill, no cries of victory or glory. Only the red.
Mounting up, he headed back out of the trees and back toward safety at a full gallop, already planning his explanations. There would be no mention of ghosts, there would be no mention of Bloody Knife or visions of blood-soaked hills. There would be no glory. He had made history — history and glory are not synonymous. His head hung low, he rode to destiny.
I’ve posted this before, but my novel DEEP BLUE will be on sale at all outlets for .99 from now until at least the 5th of October. This is the book (don’t take my word for it, read the reviews) that was compared to King and Koontz… the big book that should have been my breakout (and still could be with your help) that came out from a small publisher… didn’t do well despite wonderful trade reviews… and still needs a wider audience.
The novel Deep Blue finds its origin in the novelette by the same name published in an anthology titled Strange Attraction. In Strange Attraction, all the stories were inspired by the “Kinetic” Art of Lisa Snelling, each author choosing one of the characters on an intricately detailed Ferris wheel sculpture. I was honored to be among authors such as Neil Gaiman and Gene Wolfe in presenting our separate visions of what lay buried behind her art. From the images presented, I chose a harlequin, hanging by a noose from the bottom of one of the Ferris wheels seats. I took the image, made it the wallpaper on my computer, printed it out and carried it around with me, and let it sink in. I could have written any number of stories that would have sufficed, but somehow I knew there would be more to this work, and so I waited.
The publishers of the anthology, Vince and Leslie Harper, invited me to have dinner with them one night when my mundane job took me to Washington DC. We met for Mexican food and went together to see the movie PI which, at the time, was newly released. On the way to meet the Harpers, I walked down into a shadowed subway, and I was assaulted by some of the most haunting saxophone music I’ve ever heard. It bordered the blues, walked down old jazz roads, and I never saw the musician. That set the mood for what was to come.
I reached the restaurant without further incident, and we spent a pleasant hour scalding mouths and stomachs with jalapenos and washing them down with beer. Then came the movie. I won’t go into detail about PI, but I’ll say it’s a black and white film, very surreal, filled with symbolism, and it left me visually and emotionally stunned. I parted company with Vince and his wife, found my way back to the subway and my hotel, and called it a night.
The next day, a friend of mine and I set out to visit The Holocaust Museum. I have always wanted to see it, but I was not prepared for the intensity of the images, the displays, and the words I would find in that short hour visit. I purchased a book of poetry written by the victims, and left with so much bottled up inside from those two days that I thought it would be the end of my sanity.
That night, I started to write. I started to write about The Blues, and how deep they might really get. I wrote about pain, not my pain, but the pain bottled up inside the world, as the pain had been bottled up inside me, and I wrote a way out. That was Brandt, his guitar, and his blues. The story, like the pain, refused to be bottled up in just the few lines of that novelette, and so I released it into the novel you now hold.
Everyone comes to their crossroads eventually – the defining moment of life. As Old Wally, one of the novel’s main characters tells us – “Crossroads, or the crosshairs.” Forward or back, but you can’t stay stagnant – that way lies madness. I give you . . . Deep Blue.
My novel THE ORFFYREUS WHEEL is included in this amazing STORYBUNDLE curated by Melissa Scott. Historical fantasy has long been a favorite genre of mine because it’s allowed me to learn, and come at the past in different ways, and from unique perspectives. In my novel, you’ll meet a man who called himself ORFFYREUS and claimed to have invented the Perpetuum Mobile. He was never proven a fraud. On a parallel storyline, I try to show what I think would happen if such a free source of energy loomed on the horizon in full view of big oil companies and the world.
In this collection I’ve been able to bring together an extraordinary group of writers who draw their inspiration from Western history, in periods from Ancient Egypt through the Second World War. There are classics like the World Fantasy Award-nominated Lord of the Two Lands and the Nebula-nominated Death of the Necromancer, and newer novels like Daughter of Mystery and The Emperor’s Agent — and Stag and Hound, just released in April. What these novels have in common, across these very different periods, is a depth to and delight in their worlds, in the precise detail and pitch-perfect moment that not only propels the story, but makes it utterly, dazzlingly real.
The initial titles in The Historical Fantasy Bundle (minimum $5 to purchase) are:
• The Death of the Necromancer by Martha Wells
• The Emperor’s Agent by Jo Graham
• Daughter of Mystery by Heather Rose Jones
• The Virtuous Feats of the Indomitable Miss Trafalgar and the Erudite Lady Boon e by Geonn Cannon
• The Orffyreus Wheel by David Niall Wilson
If you pay more than the bonus price of just $15, you get all five of the regular titles, plus six more:
• The Armor of Light by Melissa Scott and Lisa A. Barnett
• Steel Blues by Melissa Scott and Jo Graham
• Between Worlds by Martha Wells
• PIllar of Fire by Judith Tarr
• Lord of the Two Lands by Judith Tarr
• Stag and Hound by Geonn Cannon
The bundle is available only for a limited time via https://storybundle.com/fantasy. It allows easy reading on computers, smartphones, and tablets as well as Kindle and other ereaders via file transfer, email, and other methods. You get multiple DRM-free formats (.epub and .mobi) for all books!
It’s also super easy to give the gift of reading with StoryBundle, thanks to our gift cards – which allow you to send someone a code that they can redeem for any future StoryBundle bundle – and timed delivery, which allows you to control exactly when your recipient will get the gift of StoryBundle.
Why StoryBundle? Here are just a few benefits StoryBundle provides.
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This is a short story I wrote many, many years ago. A friend recently saw a horror movie about the suicide forest beneath Mount Fuji in Japan… that is the setting of this story. This is not a horror story. I have no idea what kind of story this is, but it is one of my favorite things of all I’ve ever written. I’m sharing it here now…
For Kay Reynolds, whose book of haiku written by Kamikaze pilots helped me to do this… and for Brian A. Hopkins, who was the editor I wrote it for.
YOU ARE JUST LIKE GODS…
Myoshi felt his foot slip on the slick, moss-covered rock, and he gripped the rocks above him more tightly. The sharp lava stone cut into his fingers, but he regained his balance and remained very still, letting his breath and heartbeat calm. The sun rose slowly, warming his back as he climbed. Birds cried from the rocks above, and from the depths of the trees. Myoshi brushed his fingers across his brow, wiping away the sweat.
Fuji rose above him, grim and imposing, but no more so than the formidable drop behind. Myoshi had begun his climb at first light, and he had made good time. On his back, his school book bag bulged with supplies. There was a souvenir shop at the edge of the forest, but he’d wanted to avoid prying eyes.
He carried some well-packed fish and rice, and two small packets. One was his school work, graded and banded carefully to be saved and shown to his parents. The other was a packet of letters. Letters from Myoshi’s grandfather. Letters Myoshi’s father had kept, wrapped carefully in rice paper and bound with a silken ribbon. Letters that one day would be missed.
The mountain leveled off for a time, and Myoshi was able to walk normally, sweeping his gaze along the trail that wound up and up until it was lost among trees and clouds. It was a wonderful day for a climb.
Far below, beyond the ocean of trees that was the ancient forest of Aokigahara, school was in session. Myoshi’s father had been at work for two hours, and his mother would be home, cleaning and organizing. Nothing in their small, neat apartment was ever out of place. Myoshi’s father would not have permitted it, and his mother would do nothing that shamed her in her husband’s eyes. Perfection. Myoshi yearned for that. In everything he did, he fell short.
In school, his mind wandered. His grades were not bad, but neither were they good. In Myoshi’s household, mediocrity was not an option. Other children excelled. Some were athletes, others could calculate in their heads faster than Myoshi could press the buttons on his calculator. Myoshi could write, some, but even in this he fell short in his father’s eyes. His marks in penmanship were less than satisfactory, and his grammar was erratic. His teachers said he lacked focus and discipline.
Myoshi’s grandfather had known about discipline. He had understood about being different, as well. It was all in the letters. Letters written by a man who died before his own young son could bring home grades, or books of letters. Letters that were Myoshi’s father’s one link to the past. A fragile link, built of memories half-forgotten and fantasies long rehearsed. Myoshi had heard those fantasies. He had met his grandfather through his father’s words. He had seen the glint in dark eyes, and the shining leather of the uniform. Myoshi had heard the roar of engines as great birds of war took flight.
“You are just like the Gods,” Myoshi breathed, “Free of earthly desires…”
He slipped under the umbrella of tree-limbs and continued up the mountain. His father’s voice echoed through his mind. The mountain slipped away, just for a moment, replaced by white, billowing clouds. The soft cries of birds and the chirping of insects gave way to crackling static. He sensed the others, tightly formed squadron of death, moving as a single unit with the sun blazing above. Myoshi could feel the sweat beneath the flight helmet. He could sense the symmetry of the squadron’s practiced motion. One great bird. One bolt of lightning aimed at those who opposed the Emperor.
“To fly as one bolt
From the crossbow of a
A tree root protruding from the mountain’s rough hide sent Myoshi tumbling, and his mind returned to the moment. He caught himself on both hands, scraping one palm, and fighting the urge to cry out. The weight of the pack pressed him more tightly to the earth. Turning, he seated himself on a rock and caught his breath. The sun was bright, and as he looked back the way he’d come, he saw that the trail had disappeared, the winding course cutting off his entrance to the tree-line completely. Nothing below but the green tops of the trees, obscuring the forest floor, and the rocky peak above rising on a gentle slope above a second line of trees. Myoshi could just make it out, and he smiled.
From his pack, he pulled free a rice cake, and the packet of his graded school papers. Carefully, he unwrapped the bundle, plucking out the sheets one by one. He laid them on the stone beside him, tracing the even lines of his script with a critical eye. He had been doing well on this one. Line after line of formulas strung together in the proper patterns. Then the error. One figure out of place, another line used to scratch the mistake from the paper and the continuation – flawed. Beside each figure, a corresponding red character in the elegant script of his teacher. Corrected. Berated. Imperfect.
Myoshi had done well enough to pass from this class to the next, but with no honors. No fine words from teacher to parent. No pride. It had taken him hours to complete that assignment, painstakingly forming each character. He had wanted so badly to please his father that the old man’s image had formed in Myoshi’s mind. The words, and the stories, and lectures slipped in to distract.
Myoshi traced the scratched out character’s with the nail of one finger. He whispered to himself.
“You are just like gods.”
The figures mocked him. The red letters, so bright in the sunlight, glittered like the eyes of serpents. His father had not seen them. Myoshi had kept the papers, folded and tied. Bound and under his control. He could not control the characters, or the formulas, but he could control their outcome, for a time. The birds did not threaten to expose his secret, and Fuji beckoned.
Myoshi glanced at the second packet of papers. He slid his hand into his pack, stroked the silk bindings, but he did not open the letters. Not yet. He quickly packed the wrapper from the rice cake, and the school work, and rose, turning to face the mountain once again.
“Free of earthly desires,” he said softly.
Free of his family. Free of school, though it tugged at his heart. He would be a disappointment to his father this final time. Myoshi had not missed a day of school in five years. The only desire he could recall in all those years was to please his father. The most wonderful moments of his life had been spent at that great man’s feet, listening to stories of emperors, and wars. Stories of his ancestors. Stories that filled his heart and mind with dreams of other places, and other times. Times and places where he was not a clumsy young boy, but a hero. There were ways for those unworthy of honor to regain it. There were answers to the loss of pride.
The good times with his father had grown fewer and further between as Myoshi had grown older. As the piles and piles of papers, just like those in his pack, had stacked themselves against his future, and his honor, his father’s eyes had grown distant. They still saw Myoshi, but not the same Myoshi they had seen before.
Myoshi rose once more, his gaze sweeping up the winding trail to where the peak of the mountain slipped through the clouds. Eagles soared through the highest branches of the trees, circling slowly. Myoshi screened the sunlight by cupping his palm over his eyes and watched them. The brilliant light glittered on a bit of mica imbedded in the mountain, diamond glimmer nearly blinding him. Myoshi squinted, cocking his head to one side to listen.
He could hear his father’s voice as the mountain faded. Could sense the shift, and welcomed it.
“We watched from the decks as the pilots swarmed to the sky, a black horde, synchronized and dangerous. It was not our time. We were too far from the enemy, and these would return, but they were majestic in flight.
“I remember standing very still on the flight deck, watching them shrink to fly-specks on the horizon, and knowing, when it was my time, that speck would be me. Shrinking to nothing. Here, and then, no more, a bright spark in the Emperor’s eyes – a memory in my family’s heart. Just like the Gods.”
With his eyes squinted so tightly, Myoshi saw the aircraft shimmering against a darkened sky, saw them bank and circle against the clouds. Saw them focus. Eagles. Eagles were like the Gods, as well, but a different sort of God.
Myoshi picked up his things and started up the mountain once more, suddenly eager for completion. He could feel the wind on the wings of the eagles, and that same wind shivering through his hair.
There were not many letters. Myoshi’s grandfather had not served for years in the military, or even for a year. Months, only, and he had never returned. He had not been a precision pilot, nor had he been blessed with the blood of the Samurai. Still, he had soared.
Myoshi had read those letters again and again. He had begged his father’s indulgence to allow him to watch over them. To guard them. He had seen in his father’s eyes the struggle this had been, but those words, those images, were ingrained in his father’s mind. That great man no longer required the letters, and so they had passed to Myoshi, who had cherished them as no other possession.
His grandfather’s penmanship had never faltered. There were no red characters or strike-outs. There were clear thoughts, worded in poetry stretched to prose without loss of continuity. It was his grandfather’s words that inspired Myoshi’s own writing, unworthy as it was. It was the images of his grandfather’s death that stole those words, and distracted him from his own honor. His teacher said his mind wandered. Myoshi knew it soared.
The trees had begun to thin. All that stood between Myoshi and his goal was a ragged backbone of rock. Far above him, farther than he could have climbed in such a short time, patches of snow were visible. The air was noticeably cooler, and Myoshi was glad, very suddenly, that his mother had insisted on the sweater he wore, though it had been too hot less than an hour before.
“The higher you go,” Myoshi’s father’s voice, “the colder it gets. The harder it is to breathe. It is always dark. We don’t fly by day, and those few of us who get to practice at all are very sparing with our fuel. We are not trained to fire at the enemy. We are barely trained to land. It is not expected of us.
“We study the great maps daily. We listen to the inspirational words of our leaders. I have meditated more this span of two weeks, my son, than I have in the last two years of my life. Things I have never thought of become clear. Your mother. Your face, watching over me in my dreams.
“My face reflected
Bright smile, shining eyes, dark
Like the twilit sky.”
Myoshi’s eyes were dark, as were his father’s. He knew that he resembled both men, third generation to bear that visage, first to fail. There would be no medals hanging on the walls of Myoshi’s home. Not unless he inherited them. He would not write wondrous letters to a son yet unborn, telling tales of glory, and darkness, blood and fire.
He stopped again, shielding his eyes and glancing up toward the mountain’s peak. The eagles had roosted, leaving the sun to beat down on a desolate slope. Myoshi planned to be across the ridge and safely on the plateau on the far side before the afternoon sunlight waned. He considered stopping for another snack, but there wasn’t much shade until he crossed, and he wanted to reach the ledge with enough light for reading.
Not that he needed light. Not that every word in every letter wasn’t ingrained in his imagination, every image fully formed and captivating. He stepped out onto the bare stone. The wind whipped up and nearly toppled him from his precarious perch, no longer blocked by the trees. Myoshi fought for his balance, regained it, and took a quick step forward, then another. It was easier once he was moving, and he concentrated on the stone at his feet.
Myoshi did not want to think about the side of the mountain, or the lava fields, obscured by the forest below. He dislodged a tiny avalanche of dust and stone and stopped, waiting for his heart to grow still.
Myoshi thought of Cherry blossoms. His grandfather had often mentioned them, as had his father. One of the other pilots, younger even than Myoshi’s grandfather, had written a poem that Myoshi loved. The haiku, so simple, so profound and complete in that simplicity.
“If only we might fall
Like Cherry blossoms in the spring
So pure and radiant.”
Myoshi contemplated the mountain. The distance to the base. The remaining climb. There were no cherry trees on the mountain, and somehow, he was glad. He didn’t want to think about the ground littered with their petals. He didn’t want to walk over so many great souls.
As the sun warmed his back, and the wind chilled his face, Myoshi climbed.
* * *
The sun dropped fast beyond the horizon, and Myoshi leaned in close, trying to catch enough of the dying light to finish the letter. It was the last of them. Eight, carefully penned slices of life; all that remained of Myoshi’s grandfather. When he had read the last familiar word, he carefully folded the paper, painstakingly matching the folds and tying the ribbon as it had been reverently. Myoshi tucked the bundle under his shirt, close to his heart.
Next he pulled free a single sheet of blank paper, and his pen. It was getting more difficult to see, but it would not matter. There would be no red glaring characters to mar this piece. Nothing to correct. No figures, only a promise. A single promise.
Myoshi wrote slowly as his mind wandered, for once allowing the words to be absolutely his own. He didn’t watch the paper. It was getting too dark for that. He had to depend on his instincts and luck. He knew his teachers would not approve, but for once, he was beyond that as well. He was not writing a lesson. He was writing a history. He was encapsulating his life.
“Since I was very young,” he began, “sitting at your knee, my father, and listening to your stories of grandfather, I have loved the cherry blossom. I read the haiku, and in my dreams, the blossoms grew to men. In the words of those who died gloriously, taking the paths of falling stars to the hearts of their enemies, I found dreams. As I failed in my life, they gave me hope.”
The mountain faded around him as shadows lengthened. The moon had yet to rise, but only the last rose-tinted hints of the sun licked the skyline. Stars glittered like diamonds. Like petals. So many petals.
Myoshi continued to write, but his mind closed out the reality of mountain and paper, the pen slid silently, marking the trail of his thoughts, but not carefully. Not with the painstakingly rigid strokes of the school, now empty and silent, like the mountain. Not with the measured rhythm of his grandfather’s even script. With Myoshi’s heart. He penned each character as it felt, and he paid no more attention to it than he did to the breeze. He mouthed his grandfather’s words and shivered.
“The air was cold on deck. We were allowed only minimal equipment. Nothing, really, to prepare for the weather. If we grew ill, we would find our release. If we were cold, we had but to think fo the flame, and the glory to come. Each brow was covered with a single strip of cloth, white, with the rising son emblazoned.
“I remember last night. I went, alone, to the flight deck. The Oka – cherry blossom – stood before me, silent and empty. I tried to picture the skies, the enemy, the waves. I saw a coffin. I saw an end, and a beginning, etched in flame. My heartbeat quickened, fanned like a flame by the wind as it whipped across that dark, empty deck. I stood there a very long time, and when I returned to my bed, I could not sleep. Instead, I turned to the pen, and the paper, wanting you to share the moment.
“Waves lapped gently at the sides of the ship, rocking us like babes in the arms of our mothers. It is the last night we will spend in the arms of any mother, cradled by the earth. I want to sleep and let it slip away. I want to awaken to that last day as I had so many others. I know I will not. I cannot sleep.
“Now the sun is rising, and my hand shakes as I hold the pen; my heart races. The others have tossed and turned all around me. None found the peace of deep sleep, and those who did sleep are round-eyed with visions and final dreams.
“I will close this now, so that I may seal it and put it in the Commander’s hand. He will see that you get this letter, and the others. Tonight, I die, but part of me lives on. I have a sun, and I am blessed.
“I remember the words of Admiral Ohnishi, by whose grace I have this chance to die so well.
‘In blossom today, then scattered,
Life is so like a delicate flower.
How can one expect the fragrance
To last forever?’
“May I honor you. May I honor our Emperor. May the gods embrace me.
Myoshi’s pen did not stop scratching at the paper as his grandfather’s words ended. He could feel the deck swaying beneath his feet. He wrote on until the paper was filled, and turned, and filled on the opposite side as well before he set it aside, unsigned. Only the weight of the pen held the paper in place against the stone, and the edges flapped in the breeze, like the wings of a great moth, reaching into the moonlight.
The takeoff was rougher than usual. The waves had risen higher, and the deck slanted one way, then the other, great sweeping rolls that skewed the skyline and stole one’s balance. Myoshi blinked, the strobe effect easing his nausea. A thousand butterflies had risen to flight in his breast, and his hands shook like those of an old man.
All around him the roar of engines. Each coughing to life, sputtering drowsily then roaring with barely contained life. Life. That is what pulsed through Myoshi’s veins, pounding so loudly he thought of the surf, and the ocean. The air was cool, but he felt a fiery heat building, felt the glorious binding of man to machine to air as they launched.
The air whipped against his face, and he felt the exhileration, the pure joy of release as the deck/earth/world slipped away. His breath was stolen, and though he fought against that breathlessness, he could not quite force the words past his lips.
Myoshi’s body tumbled, falling freely from the ledge of stone, arcing out from the stone and whirling, head over feet over head again and crashing through the upper branches of the ocean of trees, swallowed whole by the ancient, silent forest.
Far above, the clouds opened for one second, and the silhouette of a single plane was outlined – then gone.
* * *
A group of teenage boys, on a hike, came across bones, picked clean and whitened by the sunlight, slipping through the trees. They turned in horror, ready to bolt, but one stopped.
A packet of papers, mildewed and rotting, lay to one side. It was bound by a single ribbon of silk. Forcing his eyes from the bones, the boy reached out and grabbed the packet.
They ran. It wasn’t until much later that the papers were carefully opened. Most were very old, but a single page of newer script was tied atop the pile. On it, this verse.
“White blossom, broken
stained petal, crimson, gliding
Lost in the moonlight”
FOR A LIMITED TIME – all four books for only .99 – time to fall in love with a new series!
Donovan DeChance is a collector of ancient manuscripts and books, a practicing mage, and a private investigator. This Omnibus Collection includes books I, II, III, and IV of the series. Included are Heart of a Dragon, Vintage Soul, My Soul to Keep (The Origin story of Donovan DeChance) and Kali’s Tale – book IV of the series. Also included are the bonus novellas “The Not Quite Right Reverend Cletus J. Diggs & The Currently Accepted Habits of Nature,” and “The Preacher’s Marsh,” both of which provide background on settings and characters that appear in Kali’s Tale. If you enjoy this book, you should read Nevermore, A Novel of Love, Loss & Edgar Allan Poe, which follows on Kali’s Tale, has a cameo from Donovan DeChance, and leads into Book V – A Midnight Dreary, currently in progress.
Heart of a Dragon: When a local houngan begins meddling with powers she may not be able to control, a turf war breaks out between the Dragons motorcycle club and the Los Escorpiones street gang—a war that threatens to open portals between worlds and destroy the city in the process. With his lover, Amethyst, his familiar, Cleo – an Egyptian Mau the size of a small bobcat –the dubious aid of a Mexican sorcerer named Martinez and the budding gifts of a young artist named Salvatore, DeChance begins a race against time, magic, and almost certain death.
Vintage Soul: When, despite the finest in natural and supernatural security, a sexy and well-loved, three hundred year old lady vampire is kidnapped right out from under her lover’s nose, Donovan is called in to investigate. There will be no ransom for the kidnap victim, and if Donovan doesn’t prevent an ancient, forbidden ritual from reaching its culmination, far more than a single vampire’s undead existence will be at stake.
My Soul to Keep: Donovan DeChance is a very private man, and he is in love. When he invites his partner and lover, Amethyst, for a quiet dinner, she has no idea of his true intention. Donovan has planned a sharing – a vision that will give her the keys to his early life – the origins of his power – and a lot more than she bargained for. Join young Donovan as he fights to keep his soul, save a town, and learn the roots of his teacher and guardian – and meet his familiar, Cleo.
Kali’s Tale: When Donovan is asked to follow in secret as a hot-headed group of young vampires set out on a ‘blood quest’ to kill the ancient who created the young vampire Kali against her will, he learns that – as usual – there is a lot more to the story than meets the eye. Through the juke joints of Beale Street in Memphis, to the depths of The Great Dismal Swamp, Donovan and his lover and partner, Amethyst, find themselves drawn along on one of the strangest quests in their long, enigmatic lives as they delve into the world of the undead, the magic of The Blues, and the very heart of alchemy both to protect their young, vampiric charges – and to prevent an ancient evil from destroying the balance of power in the universe.
This novel directly crosses over to the original series O.C.L.T. – where Donovan is a sometimes consultant. It features appearances by Geoffrey Bullfinch and Rebecca York, O.C.L.T. agents, as well as Old Mill, North Carolina’s own Cletus J. Diggs.
Over on Twitter, author Chuck Wendig laid down a challenge (through his blog) to use a random cocktail generator, take the drink that was offered, and write a story (no more than 1000 words) post it in your own space and then link to it in his comments. I got… The Walk Me Down. The recipe for this drink is at the bottom of the story…seems sort of appropriate, I think, on a St. Patrick’s Day… Enjoy.
Walk Me Down
By David Niall Wilson
The bar on the corner used to be run by Sean Macklemore. He was a ruddy, red-faced Irish guy with a big silver tooth front-top-center of his smile. He and Pop had known one another longer than I’d been alive-that bar was my Pop’s second home.
Every morning I walked the two miles to school. Pop worked in the match factory halfway there. Every morning we’d get up and have our breakfast. Pop would read his paper, and I’d shuffle through homework, or scan a comic book while scooping oatmeal and eggs into my mouth. When the paper was read, and his cup was empty, it was time to go, and it didn’t matter if I’d finished eating, or forgotten to put on a shirt. “Come on boy,” he’d say. “Let me walk you down…”
We walked together every day for all the years I was in school, and the first ten that I worked with him at the factory. That’s where I ended up. That’s where we all ended up, those in the neighborhood who didn’t escape straight out of high school into the army, or, for the privileged few, to college. There wasn’t much happening in Random, Illinois in those days.
Then, one day on the line, Pop turned to the man next to him and said something incomprehensible, and keeled over flat on the floor. Turns out he had a bum ticker, sticking and clicking off beat like a confused phonograph needle.
He was never the same, and he never went back to the factory. He still loved that bar, though, and Sean – who had retired and passed the business on to his son, Seamus. He and Pop were like local royalty in that corner booth, but without any subjects.
Every day I walked to the factory, and on the way, after my coffee and the paper. I’d call to Pop, it was our joke – one of the only things that could make him smile, no matter what. I’d say, “Come on, Pop, I’ll walk you down…” Just like he said to me all those years.
The factory got a little seedy. Half the workers were let go. Pop and Sean went on about it – talked about the glory days, the safety regulations that were supposed to be in place, and weren’t. I sipped my whiskey and took it in, but I counted myself lucky I hadn’t been cut with so many others. I still had a job. It paid the bills, and one of those was the bar tab at Macklemore’s…
One night, three whiskeys in, I heard a story I hadn’t heard before. Sean started talking about the factory. I’d sort of wondered why he cared. Pop worked there, but Sean just served drinks. That’s what I thought.
The Macklemore’s had lived in Random for generations, and what I hadn’t known was that Sean’s brother, Liam, was part owner of the factory. The two had gone down different roads after high school. Now Liam had died, and Sean found himself part owner of a sinking ship.
Pop had plenty to say too. No one listened to either of them. Except me. The whole thing got me thinking. Safety regulations were being ignored. The building was declining, and the workers were being let go, one after another as business dwindled. The city – Pop – Macklemore’s – my life. All headed down the crapper like they were stuffed there with some sort of cosmic plunger.
Except, I had this idea. As ideas go, it probably wasn’t too original, but hey. You go with what life gives you. Life gave me Pop, a dead end job, and a friend named Seamus with a dad named Sean. He gave us whiskey. It all gave me that idea I mentioned.
One night I left the bar late. Pop was three sheets in – so was Sean. I left a note for Seamus telling him I’d be back for Pop. Had some things to take care of.
There wasn’t much security at the factory by night. No one broke in – everyone there was looking for a way out. I made it to the storeroom undetected. I’d thought it through. Faulty wiring. A factory full of wooden matches. Sean and Seamus would collect on the insurance, and Pop and I would hang on like leeches for the ride. Maybe I’d learn to tend bar.
Except… Pop and Seamus followed me. They’d had a lot to drink. Too much. They slipped by me in the dark, and if one of them hadn’t tripped and banged into a door, I wouldn’t have known they were there at all. Maybe they didn’t see me either.
I was already on my way out, and those two crazy old bastards were heading into the storeroom. I never found out why. I started back after them, but it was way too late. Smoke came billowing so fast and thick I could barely breath.
I got out alive, and I got back home. I washed and changed clothes, and I headed back to the bar – like I was coming after Pop. All I could think was that the whiskey they’d polished off must have gone up like gasoline – cooked them quick from the inside. Never even heard a scream.
Me and Seamus, we take turns tending the bar now. We don’t talk about the factory, or our Pops. Don’t talk much at all, truth be told. I listen to people tell me their problems, how the town is dying – how the world is going to hell…
That’s another place I think about. I’m getting older…my time will come soon enough. I expect, when it does, I’ll see Pop standin’ there in front of me… He’ll say, “Come on boy,” and I’ll follow. It will be hot, like the factory- like all the matches in creation. He’ll say… “Let me walk you down…”
WALK ME DOWN
1/2 oz Vodka
1/2 oz Triple sec
1/2 oz Rum
1/2 oz Gin
1/2 oz Tequila
1 oz Sour mix
1/2 oz Blue Curacao
Add the shots, 1/2 shots for the ladies. Over ice is best.Mix well.
In celebration of the author turning another year older, and Halloween, and Edgar Allan Poe, and all that … I’m dropping the price of Nevermore – A Novel of Love, Loss & Edgar Allan Poe to only $0.99 from now until the 16th of November. This will be featured a few places, maybe win a winder audience…one can certainly hope!
You will find that the sale price is good at Amazon.com – Barnes & Noble.com – and at the Crossroad Press Online Store – if you search this blog, you’ll find everything you ever wanted to know about this novel – reviews, interviews with me, interviews with characters in the book itself – starting to be one of my most popular works.
In addition to this savings, if you are an Amazon.com customer, and you buy the eBook for only .99 – you can download the unabridged Audiobook as well through the Whispersync for Voice program – it is narrated by Gigi Shane and she did a wonderful job. I’m very proud of this book, and I figured – while launching in to my 54th year of life, I’d start out by sharing something with all of you… so here you go.
Get them while they’re cheap! Also available in hardcover and trade paperback at all of the above vendors…
For interested fans – NANOWRIMO is about to start. This year I will be writing “The Not Quite Right Reverend Cletus J. Diggs & The Crazy Case of Foreman James,” the long awaited sequel to “The Currently Accepted Habits of Nature.” Stay tuned!
And so more than a month of blogging, interviewing, pimping, and otherwise striving to find ways to introduce Nevermore, A Novel of Love, Loss & Edgar Allan Poe to the world has reached its end. Yesterday the final two blog posts went live – they are linked below, along with all of the other stops along the way. More than 40,000 words written to promote a book that is about 52,000 words long… I must be crazy.
But I love this book. I have huge faith in the story, and the characters. Reviews have borne this out – but no matter what I do, or say, despite a “social media reach” that should be in the ten thousand range, the book only trickles out. Such is a writer’s life.
I’ve been buried nose deep in writing The Note Quite Right Reverend Cletus J. Diggs and The Crazy Case of Foreman James, and in marketing / formatting / proofing and editing books for Crossroad Press all along, but I’ve dedicated myself to pushing this book. I will remain so dedicated. You should go and buy it and read it. If you are a print only person, it’s available in hardcover and trade paperback. If you like eBooks, it’s available in every format at a cost of only $2.99 for the moment (the sale price I set it at for the promotion). If all of that fails to move you, Gigi Shane has narrated an unabridged audiobook of the novel which is fabulous, her voice bringing things to the novel that the written word cannot. I can’t think of a single thing to say beyond what I have said in all the posts below, and all the blog posts pointing people toward them, so I will now let this go.
Congratulations to those who have entered to win copies of the book; I will have your names / etc. soon and will have all the copies out to you.
THE ENTIRE TOUR! READ THEM ALL, INTERVIEWS, GUEST POSTS, CHARACTER INTERVIEWS…
Read about Genres & Why I hate them : ==> AT THE AUTHOR’S CAFE